


Swear To God the Devil Made Me Do It

by forallthegodsdeparted



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Bullets Era, First Time, M/M, Slurs, Van Days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-04-01 07:28:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13993413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forallthegodsdeparted/pseuds/forallthegodsdeparted
Summary: an exposition on gay inability to tell when someone wants to make out with youor: Frank and Gerard are idiots, until they're not





	Swear To God the Devil Made Me Do It

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This story is fake, only loosely based on real people and events, not supposed to represent reality in any way shape or form

Frank’s standing about four feet back from the fire—close enough that the front half of his body feels uncomfortably warm, far enough that he’s out of range of the sparks and embers floating up and out of the pit. He stares into the flames licking up the sides of the glowing orange logs without really seeing them, too lazy to focus his eyes all the way. He’s on beer number five and he’s at that point where he doesn’t quite have the spins yet, but two more and he’ll definitely be somewhere in _really drunk_ territory.

Even though his front is burning up, his back is chilly. Then he wonders if he said that out loud, because suddenly there’s a warm body pressed up against him from behind, an arm holding a beer wrapped tight around his chest, and a wave of body odor that nearly fucking floors him.

“Hey, babe,” Gerard slurs in his ear, resting his chin on Frank’s shoulder. “Missed you inside.” Frank grins through the lurch in his gut, playing along with the act, all swagger and bravado. He likes pissing people off, he tells himself. He counts down mentally, _three...two...one..._

“Fuckin’ fags,” someone jeers from the other side of the bonfire, right on time. Frank rolls his eyes, turns his face toward Gerard, who has the same idea, and they press their lips together in a long, wet, lewd kiss. It draws some catcalls and leaves Frank hotter than before and _really_ thankful it’s dark enough to hide the flush that sweeps across his face.

“Yeah?” Gee calls back when he pulls away. “You got a fuckin’ problem with it?” he says, sounding positively delighted. Frank laughs along with everyone else, sticks his tongue out like his heart isn’t racing a million miles a minute, like it’s just a joke for him too. He flips them all off and pulls away from Gee, jig’s up, nothing to see here. He drains his beer and turns to face Gerard, letting his face swim into focus: his sparkling eyes, his crooked smile, and his weird pointy nose, surrounded by an orb of badly-dyed, chin-length black hair. Frank’s stomach flips and he blinks, averts his gaze. He’s fucked. And out of beer.  

“I’ll be right back out,” he says, gesturing with his empty bottle and then back inside.

“’Kay,” Gerard answers easily, clearly on the far side of tipsy himself, turning to talk to a guy from one of the other bands and his girlfriend. Frank shakes himself mentally, starts his trek away from the warmth and across the dewy lawn back into whoever’s house they’re at.

He slides in through the back door, makes his way through the throng of people in the kitchen—how many people are here, and where did they all come from? they’re in _Ohio_ for god’s sake—until he reaches the fridge. He opens it up, stares at the selection of shitty beers. Pabst Blue Ribbon it is. He grabs one, then figures, fuck it, maybe he should grab one for Gerard too, since if Gerard’s new thing is pretending _they’ve_ got a _thing_ then he might as well hold up his end of the bargain. Two barely-chilled bottles in hand, he turns to shove his way back out the door, and runs smack into Gerard.

“Hey,” Gee says breezily, grabbing Frank’s shoulders to keep him from falling into the couple giggling and flirting next to them, “Got too cold, so came to find you in here. Wanna go sit somewhere? I’m tired.” His hands are tight on Frank and he’s not quite steady, eyes barely focused.

“Uh, yeah,” Frank says blankly, like Gerard manhandling him isn’t making him swoon like a preteen girl.

“Cool,” Gerard confirms, still gripping Frank’s right arm to drag him through all the sweaty, loud bodies and into the living room, which has a green shag carpet and wood-paneled walls. It’s crowded in here too—seriously, how many people are _at_ this party?—but the burnt-orange, plush couch is open, so they claim a spot at the end. Gerard plops down cross legged and leaning against the arm; Frank takes the middle seat. Frank hands Gerard one of the beers and they clink them together before drinking. Frank _knows_ he’s hammered now, because Gerard looks so pretty with his greasy hair, smudged eyeliner and tattered leather jacket that Frank can hardly stand it.

“So,” Gee says after a minute, a weird little quirked smile playing on his lips, “If we _were_ dating, who’d you think would top?” Frank doesn’t choke on his beer. But he comes pretty close, and can definitely feel his face getting pink. Luckily he can hide it under the cover of making fun of Gerard. He puts on his best disdainful expression, or at least, as best as he can manage while his eyes are watering.

“You know that’s, like, not actually how it works, right?” he coughs, wiping at his mouth and watching Gerard, who’s blinking and looking confused.

“What do you mean?” Gerard says, poking at Frank’s thigh with the toe of his sneaker. Frank rolls his eyes.

“I mean, that’s not a thing. People switch, nobody like... _just_ tops or just bottoms all the time. It just depends on what you feel like doing.” Gerard’s squinting at him like he’s not quite sure he believes him. Then it dawns on Frank. “You’ve never actually slept with a guy, have you?” Frank asks with wonder. Now it’s Gerard’s turn to go a little pink, and he picks at the label on his bottle.

“Sure I have,” he says defensively, “I went to fuckin’ art school, Jesus.” Frank narrows his eyes.

“Alright, drunk one night stands don’t count,” Frank says poking Gerard’s chest with the hand holding his beer, “you’ve never dated a guy.”

“Okay, fine, I haven’t, so what?” Gerard says with an indignant toss of his hair.

“Well that’s why you have no idea how it works,” Frank smirks, giving him a gentle little shove. “If you had you would know.” Gerard looks thoughtful. He doesn’t speak, just stares at Frank for a while in a way that makes Frank feel fuzzy and jittery and like the party around them is fading into the background. Then—

“But you have?” he says abruptly, eyes still burning holes into Frank’s soul. What? “Dated dudes, I mean.” Oh.

“Uh, yeah,” Frank shrugs, feeling warm around the ears for no real reason.

“Oh,” Gerard says slowly, mouth hanging open for a second in the shape of the word, “that’s cool.” Which, like, okay.

“I know it’s cool,” Frank says defensively.

“No, no!” Gerard says hurriedly, pushing his hair back clumsily with hands slow from alcohol, “That’s not what I meant, I mean obviously it’s cool, duh, I just meant, like, that’s cool. As in, like, you’re cool. I think you’re really cool,” he finishes kind of quietly, settling his cheek in his hand and tapping one finger against his beer bottle. A rush of heat swoops through Frank’s stomach and up to his chest.

Frank opens his mouth to say something like “Shut up,” or “I think you’re cool too,” or “Let me blow you on this couch,” but before he can get the words out, Ray saves him by stumbling over and flinging an arm around Gerard’s neck.

“There you fuckers are!” he exclaims, pulling Gerard into an almost-chokehold so that he’s half-buried in Ray’s hair. Frank’s not sure if he should be relieved or disappointed the moment’s broken. Probably relieved, he thinks, as Ray launches into a story of, dude, Adam just pulled the _craziest_ shit out on the deck, you had to be there, this girl—but now there’s fucking glass _everywhere_ —

“I’m gonna pee,” Frank announces loudly to no one in particular, swaying a little (or a lot) when he stands. “Hold my beer,” he then says to Gerard, who takes it with a small smirk, and he swears he can feel Gee’s eyes on his back when he makes his way through the living room into the dark hallway.

The bathroom is, thankfully, empty, and it doesn’t smell like anyone’s puked in there yet—always a major plus. Frank closes the door behind him then rests his forehead against it with a sigh, eyes closed, cherishing the stillness and relative quiet. He likes parties, likes being around people, but also really likes not having to hear anyone talk for a while. He pisses with his eyes closed, only peeking once to make sure he’s actually getting it into the toilet bowl, shakes himself off, and meanders to the sink.

He stares at his reflection while he washes his hands, keeps staring after he turns the faucet off, taking in his own appearance. He’s lost some weight in the past few months, and his roots are beginning to show. The scorpion tattoo on his neck is well-settled now, looks like it’s supposed to be there, just part of his skin. He lifts a hand to trace the dark circles under his eyes with his fingers, circles he never had before touring with My Chem. He likes them.

Someone knocks viciously on the door and he jumps. “Fucking hang on!” he shouts, running a hand through his bleached hair once and tugging his jeans up where they’re sagging around his crotch. He flings the door open, nearly beaning the guy standing behind it on his way out.

“All yours,” he chirps. Hands shoved in his pockets, he saunters back down the hall, eyes resting briefly on the portraits lining the walls. Typical midwestern family, from the looks of it. Christian, if the cross-stitch doves are anything to go off of. He thinks about his own mother and grimaces, then feels immediately bad about it and misses her.

When he gets back to the living room Ray’s taken his seat and Gerard’s still got Frank’s beer clutched in hand, so he hops up onto the arm of the couch and swings his legs around so they’re next to Gerard.

“Hey,” he says, plucking his drink out of Gerard’s hand. Ray’s somehow still balls deep in his deck story and too high to even acknowledge Frank’s there, but Gerard looks up briefly to smile at him. Something about the remnants of smudged red eyeshadow against his eyelashes make Frank need to look away. What the fuck is wrong with him? He ponders exactly what the fuck is wrong with him all through the rest of Ray’s story; when it seems to reach a stopping point Frank laughs, which satisfies Ray. Then Gerard puts his chin on Frank’s knee and stares up at him again.

“I missed you,” Gerard says pointedly. Frank takes a drink.

“What, while I was peeing?”

“You were gone a long time.”

“You guys are so weird,” Ray mutters while Frank tries not to grin too hard.

“You’re drunk,” Frank says baldly to Gerard, like there’s any world in which Gerard doesn’t know that. Gee just giggles and Frank considers ejecting himself through the nearest window.

“You _do_ get really gay when you’re drunk,” Ray says emphatically, pointing at Gerard. Gerard just rolls his eyes.

“You’re all so obsessed with labels,” he drawls. “And, like, kinda homophobic.”

“How the fuck am _I_ homophobic?” Frank says furiously, ignoring the weird hurt that Ray’s comment made him feel. Gee rolls his eyes again and waves a hand.

“I mean, not _you_. But. Like.” He waves a hand around again, at the rest of the party, giving Frank a meaningful look like he _gets_ it too. Jesus Christ. This is why he doesn’t go around telling people about the bi thing. Not that it’s some big secret or anything, but like. He tells people and then it becomes a _thing_.

“Okay,” Frank grits out, grinding the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, suddenly way too hammered and really, really tired. “Okay, uh. Are we thinking we’re gonna stay over? Cause if we are I’m sleeping in the van. Like, now.” He swings his legs back around and bolts up. Ray and Gerard look at him, startled.

“Uh, yeah?” Ray says. “We don’t have other plans for a place to sleep, so.” Frank nods at him.

“Sorry, yeah, that’s cool,” he mutters, still rubbing his face with his hands. He knows he’s being weird but he doesn’t know why and also doesn’t really care. Gerard gives him a sideways glance then looks back down at his feet.

“I, um,” Gerard starts, running a hand through his hair so it sticks straight up in the front. “There’s, like, a loft upstairs, I found, and it has a futon. I was gonna try to sleep up there.” He looks at Frank again, takes a breath. “I mean, if you don’t wanna sleep in the van but don’t wanna be around lots of people, I think not many people know it’s there. I don’t mind sharing.” Frank laughs internally. Of all the things he can’t deal with right now.

“Thanks, man,” he says a little too casually, “I’m alright though, I just. Something about this place is making my skin crawl, you know? I’m fine in the van.” Something like disappointment flashes across Gerard’s face, but disappears so quickly that Frank thinks he might have imagined it. Frank ignores it. “Do you know who has the keys?”

“Uh, yeah,” Gerard says, “Mikey, I think.”

“Thanks,” Frank repeats, turning on his heel. Mikey’s not hard to find, he’s always surrounded by a crowd of at least twenty people. Frank grabs the keys from him, strides back through the entrance hallway, and flings the door open. The silence and fresh air hit him like a tidal wave; there’s one dude out on the front porch smoking but aside from that he’s alone. Frank takes a deep breath, letting the cold drive sharp spikes into his shitty lungs, and strides away from the house. His shadow on the grass is long and warped in the floodlights, like he’s some sort of monster or cryptid of the night. By the time he reaches the street the panic is ebbing, and he’s starting to feel a little bad about freaking out on Gee and Ray like that.

Frank kicks at a small chunk of asphalt on the side of the road, berating himself. None of this is Gerard’s fault—Frank’s the one with the stupid crush that got out of hand, Frank’s the one who keeps playing along with the stupid flirting act even though it’s eating him alive, Frank’s the one who can’t have a fucking normal interaction with Gerard anymore because the stupidest part of his brain is—convinced? hopeful? afraid?—that Gee feels the same way. He digs the keys out of this pocket to unlock the dirty white van and hauls the sliding door open. It reeks inside; it probably permanently reeks from constant habitation by Way brothers. Whatever. Frank crawls inside, slams the door behind him, and throws himself across the back bench, reveling in the silence. He heard once that you can suffocate sleeping in a car—that you can run out of oxygen without a window cracked. Good. He gropes around for one of the tattered fleece blankets they’ve got shoved in the trunk and pulls it over himself. It’s fucking cold out here but you couldn’t pay him to go back inside now. He shivers, curls his knees up against his chest, and wonders when his life became so absurd.

*

A few weeks later they’re in the van, and it’s fuck o’clock at night because they just finished packing up from their gig, and Mikey’s annoyance at having to drive is palpable from the back seat where Frank and Gerard are stretched out, two benches of snoring dudes separating him from them. Gerard might be asleep too, Frank thinks; he can’t really tell cause he’s turned away, but his head is tucked up against the fogging window and he’s not really moving. Frank watches him through his drunken haze, notices the way his hair turns blue in the light from the moon and the street lamps, the way his leather jacket slips a little down one shoulder, the way his chest shudders when he takes a breath. This time Gee shudders a bit more and, okay, he’s not asleep, because he turns to gaze at Frank.

“Yo,” he whispers with a lopsided smile. Frank’s too tipsy to care that he’s been caught staring, so he scrunches his mouth up in response.

“’Sup?” he says softly, acutely aware of how dumb he sounds. Gerard’s eyes aren’t quite focused, but Frank swears they drift down briefly before returning to Frank’s face. Gerard doesn’t say anything, instead just scoots a little closer and leans over to rest his head on Frank’s shoulder. Gerard takes a deep breath.

“Tired,” Gee finally sighs, quiet, so that only Frank can hear in the crowded van. Jesus. Gerard is cute. He’s fucking cute, and Frank’s fucking screwed.

“Go to sleep then,” Frank whispers, summoning all the gruffness he’s got. Gerard just nuzzles into his neck, because the universe hates Frank.

“You go to sleep,” mumbles Gerard. He sits back up. “You sleep first,” he says again, “you can lay down then we’ll trade.”

Frank’s too wasted to argue, so he says “Alright, sure,” unbuckles his seatbelt and scoots down the bench to rest his head on Gerard’s thigh. His legs are all folded up and it’s uncomfortable, but it’s better than trying to sleep sitting up and fuck if his ass is gonna miss an opportunity to lay all over Gerard. When Gee starts clumsily combing his fingers through Frank’s hair, his heartrate triples. He pretends it doesn’t and just closes his eyes, letting himself enjoy the feeling and trying not to think too hard about it, which isn’t difficult because he’s so exhausted. Gee’s fingers leave little electric sparks on Frank’s skin wherever they brush his scalp; it makes Frank feel jittery and hot all over in the best possible way. The van is warm, Gerard is warm, and the road noise is dull and constant under his ear. Everything about right now is perfect, and Frank kind of hopes that they never stop driving, never get where they’re trying to go, because he never wants to move from this spot or Gerard to stop touching him.

*

It’s still dark when Frank wakes up—he can’t have been asleep for more than a few hours—the van is still quiet, and Gerard’s hand is still in his hair. He stirs a little. His back hurts, but being pressed up against Gee feels too nice to move just yet.

Maybe Gerard notices he’s woken up, because his hand pets a bit in Frank’s hair, then roams downward, fingers tracing the curve of Frank’s ear, moving in little circles down the back of his neck. Frank fails at suppressing a shiver, knows he’s got goosebumps, knows his body is totally ratting him out, but would rather die than do anything to make Gee stop what he’s doing. The van’s still quiet, everyone else is definitely out, and Frank’s sure the sound of his heart hammering is gonna wake them all up. But no one stirs, and Gerard’s hand drifts down to become a firm weight on his hip.

He doesn’t even realize he’s not breathing until Gerard starts stroking his thumb up and down the ridge of his hip and he inhales through his nose, sharp and shaking. And yeah, he’s totally not playing it cool, but Jesus Christ, neither is _Gerard_ —actually, Frank has no idea _what_ the fuck he’s doing, because there’s friendly cuddling, and then there’s. Well. He swallows, directs all his mental faculties toward _not_ popping a boner in the fucking back seat with his head in Gerard’s lap.

“ _Gee_ ,” he hisses desperately, not even sure what his question is. Gerard’s hand stills. For a few seconds, nothing. Then—

“Oh, hey, Frankie,” Gerard whispers back. “Are you awake?” Well. That’s one word for it. Frank blinks a few times, _hard_ , and pushes himself up to sitting, feeling weird and foggy from, you know, Gerard groping him in the back of the van.

“Yeah?” Frank mutters, trying to find a way to subtly coax his dick down with his thighs.

“Did I wake you up?”

“No.” Gerard studies him, red and yellow lights from the highway washing over both their faces like ripples on the surface of the ocean.

“Okay,” Gee whispers finally, “My turn?” Frank nods silently and Gerard unbuckles his seatbelt with a loud _click_ , fidgets around until he’s laying across the bench and resting his head in Frank’s lap. Frank swears mentally. Gerard brings a hand up to squeeze his knee briefly before sighing happily and relaxing into him. 

 “’Night, Frankie,” Gerard mumbles from below.

“’Night, Gee.”

Gerard doesn’t—there’s no _way_ —Gerard doesn’t even—Frank’s losing his mind. He sighs, leans back into the headrest, and squeezes his eyes shut, thinking desperately about anything in the world other than Gee’s face two inches away from his dick. Frank’s definitely losing his mind.

*

“Later, assholes,” Matt calls down the row of rooms as he and Ray shove into theirs. Frank’s too drunk to think of a smart response, so he settles on giving them a brief finger before wrapping his arms back around his torso, shivering and bouncing up and down on his toes.

“Hurry the fuck up, man,” he says to Gerard, who’s turning the key over and again with clumsy fingers, trying to fit it into the hole.

“Fuck off, I’m tryin’,” Gerard mutters, finally getting it right and shouldering the door open. They step inside as quickly as possible; it’s not even that cold outside but they’re both under-dressed since it was in the 70s when they left this morning. Gerard flips the light switch on and the room’s actually not too bad—a queen-sized bed and still space to walk around, and a TV that looks like it might work. The carpet’s relatively stain free and it only smells a little like ammonia. So, a win. Frank pumps his fist.

“I’m gonna shower,” he chirps, emptying the contents of his duffel onto the tiny corner table and grabbing the undershirt and boxers he’s got on reserve for post-shower sleeping only.

“Alright,” Gerard says, kicking his sneakers off and flopping down on the creaky mattress, reaching for the remote. He goes about turning on the TV and searching for a viable channel. Frank leaves him for the bathroom, shutting the door behind him and switching on the lights and the fan. It’s a little gross; the trash can hasn’t been emptied and there’s some sketch-looking black stuff around the edge of the shower curtain, but there’s a counter big enough to set his stuff down on and some little bottles of shampoo.

The shower feels like fucking _heaven_ : two weeks’ worth of sweat and grease and grime and exhaustion being washed away with the scalding water and swirling down the drain. He lathers up his hair and rinses it, twice, the sides feeling significantly longer than last time he buzzed them. By the time he gets out the mirror is completely fogged up and everything’s kinda wet; he dries himself off, pulls on his clean clothes, and uses his towel to wipe off the counter before tossing it onto the floor. For the first time in weeks he can’t smell himself. Everything is perfect.

When he wanders back into the room Gerard’s propped up against the headboard, legs crossed, shoes off (thank god), and has somehow procured a six pack of cheap lager from nowhere. Frank squints at him and he shrugs.

“Ran down to the corner store while you were in the shower for ten years,” Gee grins. His gaze flickers down Frank’s body, lingering on his boxers before coming back up. “You know, they say you don’t wear black underwear unless you want someone to see it.” He cocks an eyebrow, takes a swig of beer. Frank doesn’t blush, he _doesn’t_.

“Are _you_ gonna shower?” he asks pointedly, determined to head off whatever _that_ was before it can get worse.

“Nah,” Gerard says breezily. Of course.

“You fucking reek, man.” Gerard just shrugs again. Frank nearly groans in frustration. “Okay. Fine. But if I gotta share a bed with you, you’re gonna at least put on clean clothes.” As soon as Frank says it, the air in the room feels different. It somehow slipped his mind before this moment that they’d be sharing and, well, the last time they slept in the same bed was when his fucking crush on Gerard was at about a two and not, like, an eleven. His face feels hot suddenly, and he covers himself by quickly turning to dig around his duffel for another pair of shorts and an undershirt, not emerging again until he’s got himself under control.

“Thanks,” Gerard deadpans, letting the clothes Frank chucks at him hit him in the face and fall onto the ugly green bed spread.

“Don’t mention it,” Frank rolls his eyes, grabbing his toothbrush and heading into the bathroom, “Just, like, put on some fucking deodorant or something.”

While he’s standing in front of the sink squeezing the last of his toothpaste onto the fraying bristles of his ancient toothbrush Gerard appears behind him, wearing Frank’s gym shorts and t-shirt, smelling noticeably less like a morgue. He reaches past Frank to wet his toothbrush, and Frank’s skin buzzes where their arms almost brush. 

It’s suddenly super quiet, Frank thinks, just the sounds of toothpaste swishing and brushes against their teeth breaking the silence. He fixes his eyes studiously on a spot on the counter, hyper-aware of Gerard two feet away from him. But Frank’s totally useless at being nonchalant, and he manages that for about ten seconds before he chances a glance up. Gee’s just looking at himself, typical, and Frank lets his gaze linger: on Gee’s hair, rumpled in the back from pulling his sweatshirt off, on the waistband of his shorts where they’re digging into his hips, on his eyelashes and on the softest part of his belly where his t-shirt is stretched tighter than everywhere else. He’s just made it back up to Gerard’s eyes when Gee’s gaze shifts to catch Frank’s, and Frank feels vaguely mortified and stops staring like a fucking weirdo. Jesus.

He looks determinedly at nothing for a while, but then because he’s completely insane he thinks maybe he feels Gerard’s eyes on him, and he flickers back up to Gee who—oh—quickly averts his gaze. Huh. Frank watches him for another moment before looking away, scoops some water up with his hand and rinses his mouth out, head spinning a little when he straightens back up and makes to get out of the bathroom.

He almost walks right into Gerard, who is standing facing him, one hand one the counter, and sort of blocking the doorway. Frank catches himself, takes half a step back, and then just sort of freezes stupidly. The silence is weird, out-of-place, like there should be more white noise but there isn’t, and the bathroom light is bright and fluorescent and gives Gerard’s skin an almost greenish tint when Frank looks up at his face only half a foot away from him. Gee’s staring straight into his eyes, expression totally neutral. Frank feels weird and clammy and doesn’t know what to do, so he tries to sidestep Gerard and resume his escape as planned, but Gee just mirrors him, still silent and unblinking.

“Uh,” Frank says brilliantly, his own voice unfamiliar and scratchy. He can feel Gerard’s body heat from here. Gee says nothing. Frank’s heart is pounding and his vision is fuzzy and he has no idea what’s going on, except if he’s honest with himself he knows _exactly_ what’s going on, has known for months. Dumbly he tries again to walk around Gerard, and again Gerard also takes a step to his left, and this time also forward, and this time Gerard tilts his head down and now they’re kissing, touching only with their mouths, bodies hovering an inch away from one another so that Frank can _just_ feel Gee’s t-shirt rustling against his when he hisses in a sharp breath. And, _god_ , Gee’s lips are soft and chapped and almost tentative against his own, and he suddenly feels like he should be doing something with his hands, but he can’t move them, he’s suddenly lost feeling in them where they’re frozen at his sides.

Gerard breaks the kiss, softly, but neither of them pull away, they just stand there breathing the same air, and it’s still so disconcertingly quiet and Frank can’t make himself meet Gee’s eyes. They go in again and this time Gerard presses forward, kisses Frank more surely, crowds all up in his space; their chests are touching and Frank has to remember how to use his feet so that he doesn’t stumble backward. And then somehow Gerard’s hands are on his hips, almost awkwardly, like he’s not quite sure it’s the right thing to do, and he pulls Frank forward in a tiny, jerky motion.

Frank’s not aware of putting his arms around Gerard, or shoving his tongue in his mouth, but here they are, faces and bodies mashed together in the bathroom doorway, heaving in breaths through their noses, hands scrambling and grabbing and clutching at fabric and hair. It feels hot, it feels wet, Frank is intensely aware of every place they’re touching, from the soft flesh of their lips sliding together with spit, to Gerard’s broad hands on either side of his face, thumbing at his cheekbones and fingers scraping at the short hairs at the base of his skull, to their chests and bellies pressed flush against one another, shirts rucking up between them. And their dicks—Gerard’s hard, he’s so hard, so is Frank, and they’re close enough in height that they’re rubbing up against each other, and it feels like fire where they’re touching. Somehow Gee gets a hand between them first, drags his palm up the length of Frank’s dick, and Frank groans outright, pressing into the heat of Gerard’s hand through his boxers. He extracts an arm and gropes down Gee’s chest and stomach, and he’s delighted at the sharp gasp that he gets when he slips under Gerard’s waistband to wrap around his erection.

It’s not like he’s never seen Gerard naked—you live in a van with nine dudes for months at a time, you end up seeing way more of them than you ever asked for—but not hard, and _Jesus_ , Gee’s _hung_. He slides around, feeling the size and weight in his hand, heart hammering because it’s fucking _Gerard_ , and Gee whimpers into his mouth.

Frank bites down on Gee’s lower lip once, letting it slide out between his teeth, before muttering, “C’n I...” he can’t get the rest of it out, can’t focus on anything past Gerard’s hard, huge dick in his hand and the hot, sloppy friction on his own. Gerard looks totally helpless, color high in his cheeks, mouth hanging open, blinking against the bright lights.

“What?” Gee asks wildly, “Frank, what?” Frank can’t, he can’t—all he knows is he really wants to, really needs to—

“Just,” he gasps, grabbing Gerard’s hip with his other hand and sinking clumsily to his knees, jacking Gerard unevenly as he goes down. Gerard lets go of Frank and instead grabs onto the counter behind him, staring down at Frank like he can’t believe what’s happening. Like Frank can. Like Frank even _knows_ what the fuck is happening.

“Just let me,” Frank slurs, already feeling where the hard tile is pressing up into his kneecaps and not caring at all. He tugs at the gym shorts with both hands, pulling them down around Gerard’s pale white thighs where they’re dusted with dark hair, staring transfixed at the red marks his waistband leaves on his hips. Until Gerard’s dick springs free and then Frank can’t look at anything else, feels a wet rush of precome soak the front of his boxers, feels fucking light in the head from it, like he might fucking lose it right there. Gerard doesn’t look much better; he’s slumped back against the counter now, breath coming in short gasps, still looking at Frank like he’s sure he’s dreaming.

“ _Frank_ ,” he squeaks, knees almost buckling when Frank gets a hand on him again, smearing precome from the head of his dick to the base and jacking him.

“I...” Frank murmurs, then—shit, he’s gonna do it—he leans forward to stretch his lips around Gee’s cock, letting his jaw fall open as wide as he can, holy _fuck_ , and slowly takes him, inch by inch. Somewhere above him Gerard is whimpering a mix of curses and Frank’s name, but Frank can barely hear anything past the blood rushing in his ears and the wet slide of his fist pumping up and down Gerard’s shaft. Gerard tastes awful, bitter and sweaty and dirty like he’s spent weeks playing shows and never showering, and Frank fucking loves it, wants more, wants this every night of his fucking life.

“Oh my god, fuck,” Gerard’s gasping between breaths, “fuck, Frank, you’re—oh my god.” Frank stifles a wild giggle, hollows his cheeks instead, pulling his head back almost to the tip of Gee’s cock before sliding back down, getting into a steady rhythm, jacking his fist in the slimy mess of spit and precome that’s dripping down Gee’s balls. His knees are sore, his jaw is sore, his lips feel stretched and chapped. He can’t remember the last time he did this, but if he’s out of practice it’s not bothering Gerard, whose legs are shaking, knuckles white where they’re gripping the counter, breaths coming in shallow pants. Maybe a few seconds or maybe a few hours pass, and then suddenly Gerard’s thighs are tense and there’s a hand fisted in the back of his hair, tugging a warning. No way in fuck is Frank pulling off; instead he scoots up further on his knees and grabs Gerard’s ass with both hands, digging his fingers into the fleshiest part and holding him in place, taking as much of him in his mouth as he can. When Gerard comes his moan is high and breathy, he pulls so hard on Frank’s hair that it actually hurts, and Frank’s cock jerks stiffly. Warm wetness floods Frank’s mouth and he chokes a little as he swallows, eyes watering, Gerard huge and rough in his throat. He can feel Gerard’s hand shaking at the back of his head.

Silently, he pulls off, chest heaving, tenting ridiculously in his boxers, looking up at Gerard’s pretty, flushed face. Their eyes meet, then suddenly Gerard is on the floor too, on his knees in front of Frank, pulling his leaking, painful erection out of his boxers and latching onto his neck with his mouth, sucking hard, sucking like he means _business_ , like Frank’s gonna have a bruise there for the next _week_.

“Holy shit,” Frank grunts, hips twitching as Gerard jerks him off fast and rough, lips sliding to another spot under his jaw, biting like he’s trying to draw blood. Frank actually sees stars. He just has time to think about how he’s not gonna last three minutes, before he feels heat pooling low in his abdomen, feels his fucking ass clenching, and he grabs Gerard’s face and yanks it up so he can kiss him again, so he can groan into his mouth while he fucking loses it all over Gerard’s fist and the floor and the last of his clean clothes.

Fuck.

Frank breaks the kiss, lets his trembling arms fall to his sides. He ducks his head, rests his forehead on Gerard’s jaw, taking a minute to suck in air, to gather himself, to stop his vision swimming. He fiddles at the hem of Gee’s shirt with both hands. It’s covered in come. Gerard’s breathing heavy too, one hand still fisted in Frank’s hair, bringing the other up to rest on his shoulder. They’re sitting back on their heels, slumped against each other, legs bumping together stupidly, dicks still out. Neither of them speaks. Frank raises a hand, shoves at Gerard’s chest a little ‘cause he doesn’t know what else to do. Gerard shoves him back.

“Will you take a shower now?” Frank rasps.

*

While Gee’s showering Frank shrugs off his pajamas, shoving them into a corner of his duffle where they hopefully won’t touch his other stuff too much, and resignedly pulls on a t shirt and boxers that he’s maybe only worn once or twice. He flops onto the bed, props himself up against the headboard, and flips the TV back on, and pretends he doesn’t feel like he’s about to fucking puke until he hears the water switch off.

It takes everything he’s got to keep his eyes fixed on the screen while Gerard meanders around in a towel looking for clothes. After a few minutes the bed sinks down next to him, and he’s pretty sure Gerard can hear his heart pounding from a few feet away, pretty sure people can hear it back in Jersey. The noise from the stupid 90s sitcom that’s on sounds smug, like it knows Frank can’t make himself speak so it’s got to fill up the silence instead. He summons up all his courage and steals a glance at Gerard, who’s staring at a spot somewhere near Frank’s shin. His face is pink. So at least they’re on the same page. Rad. He looks back at the TV wordlessly.

A few minutes pass and then the mattress creaks again, and Gerard’s moved closer, casually, like he didn’t mean to, but now their shoulders are almost brushing and Frank’s entire chest hurts. He takes a shaky breath and slowly, slowly lowers his head onto Gee’s shoulder. Gerard tenses up and Frank panics for half a second, because what if he’s wrong about this whole thing and is head over heels for someone who doesn’t think about him that way, but then Gerard relaxes and puts a tentative arm around Frank’s shoulders, tugging him closer. Frank thinks that maybe little cartoon hearts are floating up and popping around his head. He grins like a loser and, feeling brave, leans closer into Gerard and wraps an arm around his middle. Gerard rests his head on top of his and Frank wants to kiss the other guys for calling dibs on the rooms with two beds.

Just when Frank’s eyelids are feeling heavy, Gerard starts to snore. Frank takes that as a cue and gropes around for the remote to click the TV off, then wiggles out from under Gerard to reach for the light switch. It goes pitch black, save for the glow from the streetlamp outside, and Gerard stirs.

“ _Shh_ ,” Frank whispers, still a little drunk, and pushes a half-awake Gerard into a more horizontal position. Somehow he manages to pull the covers out from under him and over both of them, and settles into the other side of the bed. He’s almost asleep the instant his head hits the pillow, but he still feels it when Gerard’s fingers brush clumsily against his forearm before he’s out completely.

*

Gerard’s somehow already up when Frank wakes up, which he swears has never happened before, ever. He’s sitting cross-legged at the end of the bed, hair sticking out everywhere, scribbling furiously in his sketchbook with a felt-tip marker. His eyes are a little sunken, skin a bit pale, and Frank figures he’s a little hung over, same as Frank.

“How long’ve you been awake?” Frank mumbles, rubbing at his eyes. Gee jumps a little, looks over at Frank and then looks back down— _blushing?_ Gerard is actually blushing. Frank feels a combination of smitten and vindicated.

“Just, like, an hour,” Gerard says, closing his sketchbook quickly and tossing it in the direction of his bag. It actually lands there. They stare at each other for a while until it starts to feel weird.

“What time is it?” Frank finally asks.

“Half past ten.”

“We’ve probably got to go soon.”

“Yeah.”

“Word.” They stare at each other again. Frank’s starting to feel apprehensive, like, shit, what if Gerard was just really, _really_ drunk and the whole... _thing_ that happened last night was just. Well. A drunk thing? “I’m gonna get dressed and shit,” Frank says abruptly, heaving himself out of bed and telling himself his churning stomach is just the hangover. He busies himself with finding clothes and Gerard’s doing the same behind him. They get dressed mostly in silence, save for the rogue comment about feeling like shit or the weather sucking or whatever band they’re playing with tonight being a pain in the ass.

After they’ve dressed and packed they check the room once to make sure they haven’t left anything and get ready to head out. Gerard’s about to open the door when he pauses, hand resting on the doorknob. He’s blushing furiously again, staring at the floor. Frank’s heart sinks because he knows what comes next. This is the part where Gerard tells him he doesn’t know what happened last night, that dudes aren’t really his thing, that he hopes they can still go back to being friends like normal. Gee takes a breath.

“Hey, so, um,” he finally stammers, “I don’t really just hook up with people.” He looks out from under his bangs at Frank, looking positively terrified. “I mean, like, I never learned how. Not—I didn’t mean—it’s just not a thing I do.” Frank holds his breath—does Gerard?—he can’t let himself think it, can’t do that to himself, has to hear it from Gee first.

“Uh,” he says for the millionth time in the past 12 hours, because Gerard makes him lose his grip on the English language, his sanity, and his life. “What—”

“ _I mean_ ,” Gerard cuts in quickly, “I didn’t just—do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Just hook up with people.” Oh. _Oh._ Hell. Frank starts to giggle, a happy bubble of relief and something else expanding in his chest.

“I mean, sometimes,” Frank says, feeling giddy and high. He takes a deep breath. “But...not people I’ve had a crush on for almost a year.” There. It’s out. He knows he’s as red as Gerard right now, but the look on Gerard’s face makes it worth it.

“You, um.” Gerard blinks hard, eyes fixed on the strings of Frank’s hoodie.

“ _Gerard_ ,” Frank laughs, leaning his shoulder up against the doorframe so that they’re only half a foot apart. He feels another rush of adrenaline. With a shaking hand he reaches out to take the cuff of Gerard’s sleeve between his fingers, playing with the pilled flannel. A siren wails somewhere in the distance. Frank looks back up at Gerard, who’s staring now at Frank’s hand, where they’re touching. His hair is a greasy mess, with little flyaways sticking out everywhere, his eyes are bloodshot and his skin is pasty and dry from the alcohol. Frank giggles again.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re cute?” Frank says, like a crazy person. Gerard’s eyes are wide.

“Uh. Not—a few?” Frank grins.

“ _I_ ever tell you you’re cute?” he presses. Gerard’s mouth falls open but before he can answer Frank leans forward and kisses him before he can think twice about it. It’s so bad—Frank almost misses, Gee’s mouth is still gaping and they’re both stale from sleep and dehydration. Gee freezes for a half second, then starts giggling too, laughing into Frank’s mouth until they both pull away.

“Sorry,” Frank says, not sure if he means for the quality of the kiss or just generally being a dumbass. Gerard laughs again and looks away, but his eyes are sparkling.

“So...cool,” Gerard says, running a hand through his hair before replacing it on the doorknob. “I guess we should, like, find the rest of our band.”

“Yeah,” Frank agrees, with no real desire to do so. Something occurs to him. “Are you gonna tell Mikey?” Gerard bites his lip, looks thoughtful for a long moment.

“No,” he finally says, brow furrowed slightly. “Not...not yet, anyway.” Frank’s stomach swoops again. _Yet_. Yet means not a one-night stand. Yet means Frank isn’t insane.

“Okay,” Frank says gleefully, trying and failing to play it cool. Whatever. Gerard grins again, looks down.

“Okay, let’s go,” he says, pulling open the door to the outside.

Frank follows him, cold air like knives on his skin as soon as he crosses the threshold. Matt, Mikey and Ray are already out in the parking lot, standing by the van. As soon as they get close Mikey looks hard at them for a moment, expression blank, then pulls out his phone and starts texting furiously. A second later Gerard’s phone buzzes in his pocket. Frank rolls his eyes. So much for that.

“Morning, assholes,” Ray says perkily, because he’s never exhausted or hungover. “I drove all last night, so one of you is taking first shift.”

“I’ll do it,” Frank mutters, running a hand over his face in defeat. It’ll keep Mikey from grilling him for a while, anyway.

“Shotgun,” Gerard calls quickly. Frank feels weirdly exposed in the moment. Gerard just smiles. “We can listen to more Bouncing Souls, we didn’t get through their whole discography the other night.”

“Great,” Ray says, sliding the back door open and crawling in, “Other guys went for coffee, they should be back soon.” He tosses Frank the keys.

“Cool,” Frank says, walking around to the front of the van opposite Gerard. Their eyes meet over the white, beat-up hood, and Frank feels warm despite the temperature; he quickly ducks his head and they clamber into the car.

“Alright, Bouncing Souls it is,” Frank announces as he pulls the seat closer to the pedals, and stoops to dig around the side compartment for his CDs. Ray’s already yelling at him from the back to crank the heat and Mikey’s still typing away on his phone; next to him, Gerard is fiddling with his hair in the mirror, pointedly ignoring the continued buzzing coming from his pocket.

“The fuck are you smiling about, Iero?” Matt calls from the middle seat.

“Just thinking about your mom last night,” Frank says over his shoulder. He looks out the window at the bleak West Virginia highwayscape. He’s got a band. He’s somehow got _Gerard_. What the fuck is his life? The other guys are outside now, pounding on the doors and yelling, and he unlocks the van, grinning as he revs the engine.


End file.
